A blog where those who are lost come to be found, not necessarily found out. A blog where you can be silly, and expect the same in return. An occasionally serious place, a constantly changing place. It's your Happy Place, and mine. So, let's put on our aprons and let's get busy.

An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpiewhispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Titus Aprondronicus

Yesterday, while the vast majority of people who live in the Mid-Atlantic region of America were at the grocery store, stocking up on winter storm essentials (bread, milk, eggs, cheese, K-Y Jelly, roast pork shoulder, chicken gibblets, and crab-flavored almond rice dip) I was at the movie store.

Don't lose respect for me-- it wasn't Blockbuster, it's a high-brow movie store that only we in Philadelphia and surrounding suburban environs can claim as our own: T.L.A. Video. It's so fru-fru, in fact, that the "T" in its name stands for "Theatre" and not for "Titties" or "The."

In order to secure employment at T.L.A. Video, whether you are male, female, or unsure, you need to possess the following physical traits:

* thick, chunky, black, plastic eyeglass frames.

* tattoos

* acne

* ear plugs

* nasal jewelry

* black t-shirts emblazoned with names of garage bands no one has ever heard of

* ex-army pants

* well-loved Doc Martens

* at least seven rings on each finger

* scars

* dark eyeshadow

* a lisp helps.

Female employees must have breasts no larger than a 34-B, and male employees must look like they have not eaten anything besides a Ramen meal in three weeks. This is in the employee handbook.

Anyway, I really like going to T.L.A. because they have lots of films that appeal to distinguished pedants like me. For instance, they have an entire section devoted to British film directors. Not only that, but, in the "Musicals" section, they have three different versions of "The Mikado."

Three.

With that kind of selection, even I wouldn't quibble over the fact that it's an operetta, not a musical.

Anyway, as I wandered through the shelves, exploring the vast array of Polish films, homoerotic films, and films starring Sir Alec Guinness that were neither Polish nor homoerotic (well, I guess there's some overtones in "The Ladykillers.") I wondered about what movie I should get in celebration of our impending snowedinedness. A rom-com starring Meg Ryan perhaps?

Oh, no-- fresh out of air sickness bags.

Perhaps an old Disney movie, so we can brush up on our offensive racial stereotypes? After all, I never really did find out what makes the Red Man red...

There's always the movie with the two barechested Polish guys touching each others' pecs under the messy white sheets.

Meh. Seen it.

So, what did I settle on finally?

"Titus."

Yes, the hallucinatory Shakespearean romp directed by world-class artistic sociopath Julie Taymor that features rape, bodily mutilation, twig prosthetics, orgies, at least a dozen brutal murders and, yes, let's not forget cannibalism-- with a one-handed Anthony Hopkins in a chef's uniform, gleefully dancing about the dining room table before shoving a knife in Jessica Lange's throat. After she's unwittingly consumed her own sons, baked in a pie.

That will teach my wife to complain about not knowing enough about Shakespeare.